


Dr. Seuss Never Wrote This Sh*t

by pagination



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: (kinda), Bodyswap, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-09
Updated: 2018-07-12
Packaged: 2019-06-07 16:20:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15222995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pagination/pseuds/pagination
Summary: On Friday, Clint comes back to the tower from an op in Cairo.He eats two tuna sandwiches. After that, he takes a shower.Then, since he doesn’t have anything better to do, he finally decides to do something about the strange dick in his pants.Okay, yeah. That sounds bad.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As my ongoing WIP folder cleanup proceeds apace-- I present this for your consideration. 
> 
> Don't ask me what was going through my mind when I was writing this. I don't even know. Like. What.

On Friday, Clint comes back to the tower from an op in Cairo.

He eats two tuna sandwiches. After that, he takes a shower.

Then, since he doesn’t have anything better to do, he finally decides to do something about the strange dick in his pants.

 

+

 

Okay, yeah. That sounds bad.

 

+

 

Clint doesn’t actually know Coulson very well—Pegasus was only the third op they’d been on together, so he hadn’t had time to form an opinion yet—but Fury and Hill are out dealing with Congressional hearings this month. In their absence, Coulson’s the agent liaison for the Avengers. That means he’s the lucky guy who gets to deal with Clint’s problem today.

His respectably-sized but by no means correct problem.

He finds Coulson in his office, doing the paperwork that pops up like mushrooms after a hard rain. Coulson looks up, gives him the up-down assessment sweep that gets to be obsessive-compulsive for all handlers, and then greets politely, “Barton.”

“Sir,” Clint says. ”I need you to look at my dick.”

Professional that he is, Coulson just asks, “Is there something specific about your dick you needed me to look at?”

“I don’t think it’s mine.”

It says something about either Coulson or Clint—or maybe SHIELD in general—that Coulson doesn’t even look surprised. “Okay,” he says. “Let’s see it, then.”

Clint starts to wrestle with the various straps and buckles that keep his uniform together. As a matter of course, all senior agents keep at least one latex glove on their person at all time: experience, if not protocol, has taught them that it’s a useful thing to have handy. By the time Coulson snaps a pair on, Clint’s down to his regulation underarmor.

Despite his best efforts, Coulson can’t avoid touching bare skin. He does the best he can. Clint shivers once, sharp, then holds himself still again.

Coulson extracts the visiting dick. He considers it in a clinical way. “Alright,” he says. “Were you circumcised before?”

“No.”

“So much for that.” He carefully lifts the soft dick up to inspect its underside. Clint forces himself not to flinch away. It’s the visual rather than the feel that makes him nervous. Too much time with Medical.

Coulson glances up. Clint scowls at him.

“I didn’t feel that,” Clint says.

“Numb?”

“No. I can feel my dick, but it’s like it’s . . . like, far away. And I don’t feel you touching it.”

Coulson looks down at his hand. The dick he’s holding—not Clint’s—isn’t bad looking, even if it is unfamiliar: dusky, Caucasoid. Coulson’s been absent-mindedly rubbing his thumb along its length. It’s stiffening gently, growing in girth. Clint knows from experience that it’s a grower as well as a shower. If it was his, he’d be impressed.

“I don’t feel that either,” he says matter-of-factly.

“And your testicles?”

Clint shrugs. With another glance for permission, Coulson drops to one knee and gently rolls Clint’s—borrowed—balls in a hand.

“Nope. Not mine either,” Clint admits.

“This seems like one of those things where Medical really should get involved,” Coulson says thoughtfully. “I suppose it’s too much to ask if you’ve involved them already.” He doesn’t even bother to look up for Clint’s guilty grimace. “Do you have any idea _whose_ dick this is?”

“You believe me?”

Coulson snaps off his glove and stands. Clint drags his briefs up, settling his . . . his not-his dick into place more for its original owner’s sake than his own, all things considered. “While I’m not qualified to say with any certainty whether it’s yours or not, I would trust you to know your own genitals.”

“ _Thank_ you,” Clint says. The initial hurdle of disbelief is always the worst one, in his experience. Not that his experience has extended to body-swapping dicks before.

“When did this start?”

“Sometime between Monday afternoon and Tuesday morning, I guess? I was getting ready to go on an op on Tuesday when I noticed. Not an Avengers thing,” he explains, at Coulson’s look. “I was heading out to be backup for Woo’s team in Des Moines. I just got back.”

“Did it come on gradually?”

“Maybe? I don’t know. I just know when I noticed it. One minute, it was Mr. Happy, the next minute, it’s the neighbor next door. Figure of speech,” Clint amends, when Coulson opens his mouth. “I have no idea who it belongs to. It could’ve changed at almost any point in the twenty-four hours before that. Monday was kind of a shitstorm.”

Coulson nods. Mondays are always a shitstorm. It’s a universal truth. “Was that the Columbia University thing?”

“Ivy League Hunter Killer drones,” Clint sighs. “They kept correcting our grammar while trying to kill us.”

“I saw. They lasered a missing apostrophe on a surveillance truck before blowing up a newspaper stand,” Coulson says. At Clint’s enquiring look, he makes rabbit ears out of his fingers and quotes. “’Donny- _missing apostrophe_ -s Donuts.’”

Clint considers this, remembers that at the best of times he’s hazy on where and when to stick an apostrophe in anything, and changes the subject with: “If it means anything, this isn’t the same dick I had on Tuesday.”

“What?”

“It’s changed a couple of times since then.” Clint explains. “The one on Tuesday was shorter. Bent more to the right. The one on Wednesday had a tattoo. This one I’ve had since Thursday. Here, I took pictures.” He digs his phone out of his pocket and pulls up the photos he’s been faithfully taking since his dick started to go walkabout. He zooms into the Wednesday tattoo. It’s an amazingly good tattoo, given its location.

Coulson silently looks at the pictures. There’s a furrow in his forehead that’s getting deeper by the second. “A different one every day?”

Clint shrugs, “Pretty much. Every so often, I feel someone pissing with my dick. That’s weird. No one’s tried jacking off with it yet.”

“You’re taking this rather well.”

“Not the strangest thing to ever happen to me.”

Coulson just looks at him.

“It’s pretty close, though,” Clint allows.

“Medical should do some tests. At the very least, some DNA might help us figure out what’s going on or who it belongs to. I doubt they could do anything about getting it back, but it couldn’t hurt to ID the person.”

“I could at least shake the hand that’s shaking my dick, I suppose. Will it hurt? They’re not going to draw blood from it or anything, are they?”

“You said you couldn’t feel it.”

“I’m asking on behalf of my current donor,” Clint informs. “I’m being simpatico. If I had your arrow in my quiver, you’d want me to advocate on your behalf, too.”

“I’ll come hold your hand,” Coulson says dryly, and takes him to Medical.

Medical is skeptical at first, and then they get really excited because Secret Santa dick exchanges are apparently not a thing they’ve seen before. Coulson actually does hold his hand, because Clint insists that he promised, but he uses his other hand to call analysts and get them running frame by frame through footage of Monday’s fiasco to see if anything might’ve caught Clint in its backwash.

Clint has never had this much naked enthusiasm directed towards his groin, and he’s slept with Hawkeye groupies. (Accidentally. He’s not proud.) He hopes the guy who owns this dick appreciates the attention. Although he suspects whoever it is is probably huddled in a bathroom stall freaking out right now, considering Medical decides to do some probes, as well as draw some blood.

It’s a little surprising how comforting Coulson is, actually. This is the first real medical fallout Clint has had with Coulson as point. He’s heard good things about the guy and how he takes care of his people, but he’s never actually experienced it firsthand. Coulson keeps Medical under control when they start getting broad in their sample collection. He nixes a prostate exam he considers unnecessary. It’s kinda heart-warming, when most of the other handlers err on the tough love side of the spectrum. He even gets the attending to give Clint a lollipop.

It’s grapealicious.

“What do you want to do now?” Coulson asks Clint, when Medical’s all wound up in knots and flapping their hands excitedly about _further observation_ and _pending results_ and, alarmingly, _tissue samples._

“I thought Medical wanted to keep an eye on me.”

Coulson shrugs. “You said this happens cyclically, and it’s been ongoing since Monday or Tuesday? It might help to have a timeframe on when the change actually happens, but you don’t need to be here for that. If you prefer, you could stay in the Tower and we could have Jarvis monitor you.”

Several whitecoats are bleating in distress at the idea of letting Clint slip out of their fingers. Coulson doesn’t seem to notice or care.

“Really?” Clint’s wiped. Frankly, he’d rather be at home.

“You’ll have to go without pants for any pattern to be established. I assume you'd be more comfortable being half-naked at home.”

“You’re my favorite,” Clint tells him, heartfelt.

“Yes. Yes I am,” Coulson says without so much as a blink. “I’ll call Jarvis and read him in. A driver can take you home. Shower and get some rest. As soon as we know anything, I’ll let you know. You’re on mandatory post-op stand-down anyway, so it shouldn’t make much of a difference in your schedule. And it’d be best to keep you out of the field for SHIELD ops until we establish a pattern in what’s happening. Anything with the Avengers though, we can take on a case by case basis.”

Clint waits, because that can’t be it. It can’t be that easy. Coulson hasn’t even mentioned Psych yet, or reports, or any of the dozens of things that previous handlers would already have shoved down his throat.

Except apparently it is that easy. Clint’s left feeling wrong-footed.

“Something else you need?” Coulson asks, when he turns around and finds Clint still hovering there.

“That’s it?”

“Yes. Why?” Coulson tilts his head inquiringly.

Clint clears his throat. “Think we could keep it between ourselves?” he asks, a little hopelessly. “I mean, not tell the other Avengers?” He’s thinking about Steve’s face if he heard, and all the shit Tony would say and do.

Maybe Coulson is too, because he doesn’t even ask why Clint wants to keep this quiet. “Would the rotating penis situation compromise your function in future Avengers ops?”

“No.”

“Then I don’t see the point in borrowing trouble.”

Out of sheer morbid perversity, Clint asks, “What if the next time it’s not a penis, but a vagina?”

“An average American penis weighs approximately 155 grams. Its loss shouldn’t be enough to unbalance you. Is your penis a requirement when you fight or perform operational duties?”

Coulson sounds honestly curious, like he’s not just trying to make a point: he actually wants to _know_. It’s almost enough to distract from the fact he had those numbers at the tips of his fingertips.

“It might mess me up if I do a honeypot,” Clint says, just to be contrary. He’s never done a honeypot in his life. “And peeing standing up might be a challenge.”

“I’ll put a hold on any honeypot assignment,” Coulson decides. “If the situation arises, I’ll find an agent to teach you how to do the latter. It’s perfectly doable, though admittedly it’s a bit more involved. If the penis does end up swapping for a vagina, please don’t insert anything in it,” he adds as an afterthought.

And on that horrifying note, he wanders off, already on the phone.

Coulson, Clint decides, is awesome. He’s still grinning when he goes to find a taxi.

Jarvis is already read in and promised to confidentiality by the time Clint rolls in, so all he has to do is order takeout, shower, strip, and topple into bed. Fourteen hours later he wakes up, feeling rested but still like something scraped off a public urinal. His dick is the fifth thing he checks, after the time, his messages, the refrigerator, and his bandages. He realizes while he’s pissing that he’s got a brand new model in his hands.

“J-Man,” he says, peering down. Medical drew a little X on it yesterday. It’s gone now. Not to mention, well. “This is a different dick.”

“Yes, Agent Barton.”

“Still not mine.”

“No, Agent Barton. I observed the transformation at 3:47 AM.”

“It was a whole transformation thing, huh? You got video?”

Jarvis obligingly throws the video up on the one-way window above the toilet so Clint can watch it while he finishes up. There’s a little clock on the bottom right-hand corner of the screen. There’s him, sprawled in the bed. A few seconds tick by. There’s a little wobbly glow of white around his groin. Then the glow goes away, and everything’s the same again, except that his dick is now black.

“Showy,” Clint says conversationally.

“Yes, Agent Barton.”

“If this is Fury’s, I’m dead.” Clint shakes and flushes. It continues to be weird peeing out of someone else’s dick.

“Yes, Agent Barton,” Jarvis says. He sounds sympathetic. “I have already transmitted the collected data to Agent Coulson, as requested. He would like you to call him at your earliest convenience.”

“I should put some pants on,” Clint supposes.

“And wash your hands,” Jarvis says helpfully.

“I was getting to that.”

“Of course you were, Agent Barton.”

He washes his hands. Then he gets dressed. It’s a day off, so he decides on Bermuda shorts, combat boots, and a soft purple hoodie he found in a dumpster in Oregon. He makes himself the breakfast of champions (Fruit Loops and not-quite-expired milk!), and then plops down at the counter to call Coulson.

“The DNA results are back. We haven’t been able to identify the donor of your last penis,” Coulson says without preamble. “We’ll need to get swabs off of the new one if we’re going to try running that one as well. Did you see the recording of the transformation?”

“Old dick, glowing dick, new dick, done? Yeah, I saw it.” Huh. That would’ve made a great Dr. Seuss book.

“Jarvis sent over other energy readings. We’re going through them now. The analysts were able to pull two occasions during Monday’s op when you fell off visuals altogether. We’ll need you to fill in the blanks. At your own convenience.”

“Ten-four,” Clint says.

There’s not much to do around the Tower. Steve and Tasha are out on their own ops, Bruce is off in California working with some guy at Stanford, Sam and Pepper are doing their usual 9 to 5, and the last time Clint saw Tony, he was neck deep and crazy-eyed in the middle of a room full of alien salvage. There’s plenty of staff and other folks in the Tower Clint’s friendly with, but he’s afraid if he sticks around he might accidentally tell someone all about his magic penis. Since he can’t see that ending well, he decides he might as well head to SHIELD.

The analysts there have videos queued up for him to go through. Monday’s op was pretty boring, barring the fact it was on a college campus and self-involved college students are pretty hilarious—Clint had slid on his back straight through a couple having some sort of relationship fight, shot down a drone diving for an attack run on them, and gotten a hysterical, “Do you _mind?_ We’re having a _discussion here_!” from the male half of the pair—but as far as he can tell, nothing on the cameras explains what’s happening in his pants. He hits the cafeteria for a snack and then on a whim, goes to hunt Coulson down before reporting to Medical.

Clint tracks him down to a half-staffed control room in T/O, TeleOps, all the screens hacked into some private compound that’s swarming with the remnants of a SHIELD clean-up crew. Melinda May’s callsign is in one corner. Clint has worked with her a few times, which is why even carrying someone else’s dick, he has to squash his immediate instinct to cross his legs, cup himself, and cringe.

“Barton,” Coulson greets, swiveling to face Clint.

“Anything?” Clint asks.

Coulson tips his head. “I’ve put in a call to Asgard asking someone to come in to consult. Just in case. Hopefully they’ll get back to me soon.”

 _Just in case_ means _Nobody knows what the fuck is going on, and you asked me not to talk to Tony, so I’m calling in other experts first_. Clint feels a flush of warmth at Coulson’s consideration and checks for eavesdroppers—everyone’s on coms and busy—before asking flippantly, “What’d happen if I was carrying Fury’s Smith  & Wesson?”

For the first time, Coulson looks a little bit interested. “Is it possible?”

Clint shrugs. “With my luck?”

Coulson hums thoughtful acknowledgment, taps his earpiece, and punches in a few buttons on a control panel. Clint figures he’s just calling Medical to schedule an exam, so it’s jarring when Fury’s voice barks over the T/O speakers, “ _What_?”

“Just checking on your penis and testicles situation, sir,” says Coulson.

Clint’s heart stops. The rest of the room goes eerily still, everyone frozen in place.

Fury says irritably, “What situation? Jesus fuck, who’s naming these goddamn ops? —Hill!”

“Not an op, sir. Your actual penis and testicles. Same set you had yesterday?”

There’s a short, fraught silence. “Autographed originals, in mint condition,” Fury says at last, sounding suspicious. “Why?”

“That’s gratifying,” Coulson says. “Thank you, sir.”

And then he hangs up.

The entire room just gapes at Coulson, who looks back at them and asks mildly, “Problem, agents?”

It’s the—well, the _ballsiest_ thing Clint has ever seen anyone do. Not that Coulson’s rep wasn’t already quirky and terrifying, but it’s a different thing altogether to see it in person.

Coulson, he realizes abruptly, is incredibly hot. Somewhere in the world, Clint’s dick starts to swell.

Clint swallows hard.

Fuck.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I used the word 'dick' 35 times in this chapter.
> 
> You're welcome.

 

It would never have occurred to Clint in the normal course of things that he’d want to hang out with Coulson, of all people—the guy’s got a reputation for a conformity that (now that he’s thinks about it) Clint’s never actually seen demonstrated beyond Coulson’s whole . . . well, Coulson _-_ ness. He just gives off this black ops hall monitor _vibe_. But one visit to Medical and a prank call to Nick Fury later, Clint finds himself hopelessly fascinated.

Broken dick, new crush, and downtime. It’s the story of Clint’s life.

So Clint spends his free hours at the Hub, trailing at Coulson’s heels like a codependent puppy. Coulson doesn’t bat an eye, which suits Clint just fine. It’s a relief to hang out with someone who knows about what’s going on. Even though his dick doesn’t usually come up (heh) in his normal day-to-day interactions, now he’s constantly wrestling with the urge to pull it out and shove it into the conversational pudding, so to speak. Everything around him is one wink away from being a dick joke. Not to mention he’s now hyper-sensitive to all the dicks coded into everything he looks at. Jets. Sports cars. Skyscrapers. Guns.

For the first time, it occurs to him that after all the buildup, a girl’s first experience with a real penis must be a major disappointment.

Coulson’s dick is probably never a disappointment. Clint lingers on the thought before shaking it off.

Eight days later, Tasha comes through the Hub and sits down across from Clint at lunch. “You’re spending a lot of time with Coulson,” she says. Subtext: _I know something’s wrong but whatever it is, I’ve got your back._

In the fifteen years he’s known her, Clint has learned not to ask how or why she knows what she knows, and instead just lets himself feel warm at her incredibly well-concealed concern. “You like him,” he says. “While we’re on the subject, hi, and welcome back.”

“He’s not entirely useless,” she concedes. “I always thought you two could be friends.” Subtext: _I’m happy to see you too_ and also _I like Coulson because he’s slightly more competent than 99.99% of the human population._

“Maybe. He’s not bad.”

“You’d make lovely babies together,” Tasha says, with-- huh. Absolutely no subtext. Weird. Clint has to take a break from his mac and cheese to stare at her. “They’d be quiet, deadpan, and competent. Hopefully they’d get his dress sense though,” she adds, looking him over critically.

“And my hair,” Clint adds after a moment, deciding to just run with it.

Tasha shrugs. “He gives great head,” she says, which—still no subtext, and of course Coulson does. He used to be an L6 field agent before he reached the lofty, managerial heights of L9. Bedroom skills were part of the required training for field agents L5 and above.

For some reason, Clint spends the next few hours thinking about that.

Embarrassingly, it’s never occurred to Clint before that Coulson’s one of the most well-liked and important people in SHIELD. That is to say, he _knew_ Fury liked Coulson—the fact that Coulson was able to ask Fury about his dick and not get his own surgically removed with an icepick is evidence enough of that—but he’d always figured it was a liking along the lines of a man being fond of the beat-up old recliner he’s had for twenty years, or the pair of shoes he’s broken in and refuses to throw away. Stupid of him, if he really thinks about it. Fury doesn’t do sentiment.

In the course of ten days, Clint watches more agents and ops go through Coulson’s office than he thinks are actually run through SHIELD. Everyone’s got something they need to talk to Coulson about. Some want advice on planning; analysis on fallout; questions about intel; how to work the system. That makes sense. But an astonishingly large number of agents want to talk to Coulson about personal problems as well. One little junior agent even comes in for romantic advice, which is hilarious as shit.

He gets why, though. Coulson just exudes the willingness to listen, and help. He’s nice.

Clint’s not nice. In fact, he’s an asshole. If he wasn’t an asshole, he’d leave when people want to talk to Coulson about their personal problems. Also, he wouldn’t draw little comics mocking them in the paperback he’s reading. Not being an asshole doesn’t sound like quite as much fun. Mostly, he lounges on the sofa Coulson has in his office, his earphones on and unplugged, pretending to be engrossed in his book. He figures it’s good exercise for stakeouts, keeping his face straight while all this shit is going on around him.

“I know you were listening,” Coulson says when the door closes behind Agent Emerson and her not entirely unjustified worry that her sexually adventurous lifestyle will leave her open for blackmail as a SHIELD agent.

“I can’t help it,” Clint says, letting his head loll back over the sofa’s arm. Coulson’s face is interestingly upside-down like this. Clint likes new perspectives. Coulson’s eyes are pretty, well. Pretty. “I didn’t realize you were Dr. Phil for the agents here.”

“I hope my advice is better than Dr. Phil’s,” Coulson says.

“He probably gets paid better.”

“Yes, but _I_ get the satisfaction of knowing that I’m doing it for America.”

Clint laughs, because. Well. Coulson. Funny.

“You can kick me out if you need to,” he thinks to add after that, because it _is_ Coulson’s office and it’s not like Coulson invited him to hang out for hours on his sofa. It never even occurred to Clint to ask if he could. “I can find somewhere else to park.”

Coulson tips his head to one side, considering him. “I don’t mind,” he says at last. “Stay if you want. You’re not bad company.”

“I don’t talk much,” Clint points out.

“No, you don’t,” Coulson says approvingly, and goes back to his paperwork.

Clint gets on with reading again. A few minutes later, he thinks to say, “You’re not so bad, either.”

Coulson looks up long enough to smile at him. Clint smiles back, comfortable, easy, and goes back to his book. It’s . . . nice. Peaceful. And if he feels a little warm inside when Coulson comes back from a meeting later with an extra brownie just for him, well. That’s his business.

 

+

 

After the not-Fury dick, there’s Battering Ram dick, Roto-Rooter dick, Pencil-Dick dick, Melanoma Man dick—Clint grabs one of Stark’s green sharpies and circles some suspicious-looking shit on it along with a note: CALL DR!!!—Fat Boy dick, Charlie Brown dick—“Jesus _Christ_ ,” he says to Coulson. “You got to fix this, Coulson. I can’t even go to the bathroom because I feel like a _fucking pedophile_. These balls haven’t even dropped. Is my voice higher?”—and then, worst of all, Pepperoni Pizza dick.

That one’s disgusting.

“At least it’s a grown-up model,” he says sullenly to Coulson’s ‘look on the bright side of everything’ bullshit, while Medical takes skin scrapings and cluck their tongues over the eczema and little bubbles of fluid under the skin. 

“Good job keeping your chin up, soldier,” Coulson says.

“Speaking of, how has your morning wood been, Agent Barton?” asks wee Dr. Wakiyama, popping up between his legs with a caffeine high and calipers. It’s all kind of awkward because Wakiyama is about 200 years old and terrifies the shit out of Clint with her rosy-cheeked, bright-eyed vampire china doll thing.

Clint buries his face in his hands. Coulson pats him on the shoulder.

Through it all, Coulson’s a goddamn rock. He’s politely impressed by the Battering Ram, doesn’t mock Roto-Rooter, draws a comforting smiley-face under Clint’s note on Mr. Melanoma, and obligingly dons latex gloves to aim and shake Charlie Brown when Clint’s bladder can’t take it any longer. Nothing embarrasses Coulson. Nothing rocks his zen. Coulson is the fucking Master Oogway to Clint’s Kung Fu Penis.

Clint, on the other hand, Clint’s starting to get a little rocky. By day sixteen, he’s starting to lose his mind a bit. Clint might not have the sex drive he had when he was a teenager, but sixteen days without walking the lizard is almost a record for him. The last time he went this long without a little self-loving, he was recovering from torture.

Things are starting to feel, well. Backed up. The fact that he can’t keep the same set of balls for more than forty-eight hours doesn’t seem to make a difference at all.

He almost kinda wishing whoever had his equipment would take them for a walk.

“Did your lunch do something to offend you?” Coulson asks, when he comes to find Clint in the cafeteria, stabbing a burrito with a Ka-Bar.

Clint, who’s been debating whether jacking off with someone else’s dick would have a tension-relieving effect, blinks and refocuses on Coulson. “I really need to get laid,” he says.

He can see Coulson thinking about, and discarding, all kinds of comments about Clint’s sexual drought and lunch choices. “I’ve put in another call to Asgard. Still no reply,” Coulson says instead.

“Maybe if we find the person who has my dick, we can get _him_ laid.”

The look Coulson gives him is sympathetic and utterly understanding.

The look Dr. Larris gives him a little while later is nowhere near as sympathetic or understanding. “Maybe you should see Psych,” he says.

What Clint says in response would get him arrested in Singapore.

“I understand you’re a cold, cool Man in Black,” Larris says impatiently—Clint sniggers, because has Larris ever _met_ him?—“but losing a body part is traumatizing at best. The recommended course of action—“

“We have a ‘recommended course of action’ for misplaced dicks?” Clint asks Coulson, curious.

“We do now,” Coulson says. To Larris, he says simply, “If Clint doesn’t want to see Psych, he doesn’t need to see Psych.”

Clint is one of six active SHIELD agents that Psych has filed formal complaints against, apparently. He still doesn’t know what for. Normally Psych is the one who talks to people who have complaints filed against them, and that makes things complicated for obvious reasons.

Larris is unimpressed. “He hacked the cafeteria systems to schedule a week-long tribute to the Vienna sausage.”

“A daring culinary choice,” Coulson congratulates.

“Thank you,” Clint says.

“The man has obvious separation and inferiority issues,” Larris says.

Coulson turns an expectant look to Clint, who sighs.

“I _really_ miss my sausage,” he says. When Coulson raises a judgmental eyebrow, he adds defensively, “It would’ve been a tribute to kielbasa, but Vienna’s all they have in cold storage.”

That day Coulson’s out on the field for once. Some op where he has to con Homeland Defense into commandeering something for the purposes of something else, eh. The usual. Clint’s latest op was cancelled on account of NSA infestation, so he’s stuck twiddling his thumbs while other people get to have fun. No biggie. He parks himself in Coulson’s empty office, where he catches up on paperwork, finally gets through the sensitivity training he’s two years overdue on, and reads Melinda’s post-op reports for shits and giggles. That takes care of three hours. Afterwards, all that’s left is to sprawl on the sofa and think idle thoughts of what Coulson would be like in bed. It’s an inspiring daydream.

Unfortunately, ten minutes into it, someone kicks him in the nuts.

Wherever they are.

It’s not the first time Clint’s been nailed in the jewels. There’s apparently just something about him that makes people’s knees twitch: he sympathizes. Anyway, they’re a popular target, and that’s even before you bring his job and his smart mouth into it. The difference between now and previous occasions is that usually, he sees it coming. He has time to prepare for the pain: he can anticipate it, accept it, section out the part of his brain that will absorb it and then just shake it off, because he’s a goddamn professional. It’s different when he’s just lying there on a sofa, minding his own damn business. Whoever’s in temporary possession of his dick has _pissed someone off._

He’s curled up in a ball on the floor, hissing through his teeth, when he becomes dimly aware of a warm hand pressing against his back. It’s something to focus on outside of the fucking agony. His conscious brain catches up to unconscious cues a few seconds later. It’s Coulson. The hand rubs steady, calming circles over his spine while Clint shoves the pain down into its bucket and concentrates on breathing.

“Well, shit,” he manages between his teeth, when he feels up to uncurling a little bit. He blinks back wetness. “That wasn’t fun.”

“Talk to me,” Coulson says.

It occurs to Clint that he likes how Coulson asks for sit-reps. The way he words it is nice, somehow—like he’s trusting the guy on the ground to know what’s important to pass on, and what isn’t. Even with how pissed off Clint is right now, it makes him warm. “Whoever’s got the best part of me just got nailed between the legs, sir.”

“It’s not the best part of you, Barton,” Coulson says. He’s crouched next to Clint on the ground, still in his overcoat. “Do you need Medical? I’m not sure what they could do, but there might be a way to anesthetize—“

Whatever Coulson was going to say gets lost in Clint’s explosive, “ _Fuck_ —!” as white-hot pain folds him over again.

Jesus fucking _Christ_! What is this asshole doing? He whimpers a bit, banging his head on the floor while he thinks about throwing up a little. Coulson’s hand is on his back again, gently rubbing; his voice is a calming, comforting stream of sanity nearby.

If Clint ever gets a hold of the fucker who currently has his dick, he will _end_ the guy. He bangs his head a couple more times. The sharpness of a new source of pain helps. Coulson’s hand wraps around the back of his neck, touching bare skin—that helps even more. Clint doesn’t go in much for casual touching. Coulson’s hand on his neck is electric and distracting.

But not so distracting that it does any good when his nuts get nailed _again._

“That’s _it_!” Clint wheezes, when he gets enough breath back to uncurl. He is pissed. _Pissed_. “This fucker is doing this on purpose! _”_

Coulson’s grip is firm. Supporting. “Do you know that for sure?”

“I can feel it,” Clint says, panting. He’s managed to uncurl a bit—the punching has gotten progressively harder. “He’s excited. Showing off.”

“Hm,” Coulson says. “In that case, I apologize in advance for this.”

“What—” Clint begins. A split-second later he’s flat on his back, staring up at Coulson. There’s one blazing moment when he realizes that Coulson is—Jesus Christ—fucking hot.

And then Coulson _punches him in the dick_.

Clint’s immediately kicking up and rolling, faster than thought. Coulson’s not a front-line field agent anymore, but his reflexes are good enough to knock Clint’s foot away from doing real damage to his face. Clint’s on one knee and a fist, ready to spring, when Coulson throws up open hands to show he’s done swinging.

Clint’s brain catches up enough for his feelings to be hurt. He thought Coulson liked him. Punching another guy in the dick isn’t a sign of liking. He should probably be worried that punching him in the dick actually makes Coulson _even hotter._  There’s something seriously wrong with him. Then he stops and takes stock.

Coulson hadn’t pulled his punch, and he might not be STRIKE, but he’s a trained agent and still keeps up his hand-to-hand skills. Somewhere out there in the world, there’s a guy with the wrong dick who’s is puking up his guts. Clint can sense it, like an nauseated voiceover from a neighboring room.

It’s probably petty that Clint feels such savage satisfaction in that. So he’s petty. He can live with it. “You’re a fucking genius,” Clint says admiringly. “Do that again.”

“Twice more?”

“Seems only fair.”

Clint can’t tell just how much force Coulson is putting into his punches, but he’s not going easy on them. Good. There’s enough space between them that Clint can feel the guy on the other end just start to recover before Coulson lands the next one. He can dimly sense the fucker’s pained horror and sense of frantic apology through whatever mystical bullshit connects them. On the theory that if he can feel this asshole, the asshole can feel him, he concentrates on rage and murderous vengeance—all the carefully cultivated homicidal hostility he keeps on standby in case Loki ever swings into town again—and sends it straight at his dick.

He feels the asshole cringe, thoroughly cowed.

“Good?” Coulson asks, watching Clint carefully.

“Good,” Clint says. When he gets his own bits back, he decides, the first person he gets his leg over will be Coulson.

Blissfully ignorant of that, Coulson just nods. “What are your plans for the next twenty-four?”

“Dinner, TV, some range time. Why?”

“We’re going to Medical. The fact that you’re starting to sense what the current holder is feeling concerns me.”

Clint can connect two dots if they’re right in front of him. If he can accidentally learn shit about the other guy, the other guy could learn shit about him. He scrubs at his face. “Great. A National Security risk shaped like my dick.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Coulson says mildly, which. Isn’t wrong, but really? Clint darts him a reproachful look and gets a twitch of lips in return. “Can you tell where he is?”

Clint concentrates for a moment, then shakes his head. “Nah. Nothing like that. Just impressions, mainly. He’s around a lot of people and he’s throwing up.”

Coulson almost emotes for a second. It could be worry, maybe. “We need to be more aggressive in resolving this.”

“You got a plan?”

“I have a plan.”

They march down to Medical, who instantly clear a private room for him. There’s a lot of excitement about Clint’s newfound ability to sense the current lien-holder on his dick. Clint would’ve been more excited if it had led to him being able to figure out where the fucker is. Once the docs are caught up though, Coulson unpacks his plan on How to Get Clint’s Dick Back.

“I’m having no ethical problems with this, astonishing though that may be,” says Dr. Larris. “The problem is, all our homing tags are larger, and meant for injection into less nerve-heavy areas than a human penis. I don’t think we have access to anything that wouldn’t permanently damage the member. Do we?”

“Not that I know of,” Dr. Wakiyama says. She doesn’t look at all discouraged by that.

“Fortunately, I do. Or to be precise about it, Tony Stark does. Barton, you don’t need to raise your hand if you want to talk,” Coulson says kindly. “It’s your penis. You can offer your opinion anytime you like.”

“You want to inject a radioactive tracer into my dick?” Clint asks, putting down his hand.

“It isn’t your penis. It’s someone else’s. Adding tracing chemicals into it and then scanning for it after the transfer should let us isolate the new owner.”

Wakiyama says, “We’re currently lacking enough data on the exchange logic to create a viable theory of transfer. At this point, we need as much information as we can get.”

“Can’t we just scribble a bigger phone number on it?” asks Clint a bit hopelessly.

“We’ve put phone numbers on every specimen. We have received precisely this many phone calls as a result.” She holds up her thumb and forefinger and makes a zero out of them. She stares through the hole at his crotch. “It’s like a bathroom stall door. You can see the phone number, and it promises a good time, but you don’t call it.”

Clint bites back an entirely unnecessary, _speak for yourself_. He’s really not proud.

“You should go with the option that requires large-bore needles,” Wakiyama encourages, her beady eyes gleaming.

“ _Radioactive tracer_!”

“Barely radioactive. Only a small bit. Tiny.” Wakiyama pinches her fingers together again. “This small.”

“Maybe if you focus less on the ‘radioactive’ part and more on the ‘tracer?’” suggests Coulson.

Clint looks at Coulson’s encouraging face and feels himself folding like a redneck napkin.

Larris throws up his hands. “We’ll do some additional tests today,” he says. “If it looks feasible, and the tracer looks safe, we can try this tonight.”

So that’s what they do. The docs gather around and burn brain cells at Clint’s borrowed dick, while Coulson sails off to do some recreational breaking and entering over at the Tower. Clint would rather go with him than hang around Medical, but apparently he’s not invited, and Medical really needs access to his current dick. Too bad it’s not detachable.

When Coulson comes back with an ominously glowing vial, Medical bears it off in triumph. A few hours later, Wakiyama gently rubs Pizza dick (ugh) to a chub with the very tips of her latex-covered forefinger and thumb, then injects the tracer into it. The needle’s kind of hilariously big. Clint would feel worse about it if the real owner of his dick hadn’t been such a, well, dick. As it is, he figures the pained panic he can feel through their psychic dick news network serves the bastard right.

Joke’s on Clint though. Because the next morning, after he’s rolled out of bed, checked his messages, admired the gratifyingly gorgeous morning wood of the new penis, and sent on the corresponding pictures to SHIELD, he gets a video call from Coulson.

“Hey,” Clint greets, feeling an immediate hum of— _something_ under his skin, at seeing Coulson’s face. He feels himself relax. “Guess what.”

“Yes, I know. Come on in,” Coulson says, composed and immaculate as usual in his suit and tie. “I’ve found your missing bits.”

Clint brightens. “Really? Where are they?”

“In my pants.”

Which is where Clint wanted them to be, admittedly, but he’d hoped to be attached to them at the time.

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

The next four hours are spent with Coulson in Medical, letting the bastards in white coats get way too intimate with both their dicks. It’s the first time in two weeks Clint has had a glimpse of his own, and it’s _exactly_ like finding your long lost penis and wanting to hug it but not being able to because it’s currently hanging out between the thighs of a coworker, okay, like, awkward. There’s the distant regret that Coulson isn’t getting to see it at its best—Clint had sort of hoped there’d be less audience and more lube the first time they got to play show and tell—but life’s never been fair, and it’s certainly never made an exception for his love life, all things considered. He’s resigned to disappointment.

In the meantime, Clint can’t stop himself from hovering like a helicopter parent around Coulson. Because of his dick, obviously, and not because of anything he might be feeling about Coulson himself. Really. It’s just that now he’s within handling distance of his own tackle, he’s abruptly hit with all sorts of anxiety and guilt. This, he figures, is where he definitely gets sent to Psych, because abandonment issues about shitty parents and criminal brothers are one thing, but abandonment issues about _your own penis_ are probably something else. Still, Coulson doesn’t say anything about his obsessive-compulsive hovering, so Clint keeps his mouth shut on the off chance he hasn’t noticed.

And for the most part, Coulson acts like he hasn’t. He doesn’t say anything when Clint sneaks into the exam room to watch the testing. He doesn’t say anything when Clint trails him from Medical to the weekly Ops meeting. He doesn’t say anything when Clint hugs his shadow to the coffee shop for a sandwich and latte. He doesn’t even say anything when Clint creeps after him into the men’s bathroom and gnaws on his own fist, cross-eyed, while Coulson does his business. Clint has the sick feeling that Coulson must be pissed off at him for somehow stealing his dick, but he can’t _not_ follow Coulson around the Hub like a guilty shadow, even if Coulson’s gone straight past ‘hard to read’ into ‘elective mutism.’

It isn’t until they’re back in Coulson’s office with the door closed that Coulson says anything to him at all. And even then, it’s a completely unexpected, “I’m sorry, Barton.”

Clint, who’s been increasingly distracted all day by _emotions_ and the feeling of his dick in Coulson’s pants, blinks back into focus. “What?”

“I’m sorry for this situation,” Coulson says patiently, sitting down behind his desk to study Clint over the steeple he’s made of his hands. Clint immediately zeroes in on them. Coulson has great hands. They looked even better around his dick. “Obviously I don’t know what triggered this, but if I did something that caused it, I apologize.”

“Huh?”

Eyebrows rising, Coulson gestures vaguely down in his crotch area. _Oh_.

“Okay,” Clint says, bewildered. “You’re stupid.”

Coulson’s mouth twitches down.

“That was rude. I was rude,” Clint realizes. “Sorry. You don’t have anything to apologize for. That’s what I meant to say.”

“Graceful,” Coulson says.

“I can’t help it. Tact isn’t my thing. You wear silk boxers? Really?”

“You can feel that?” Clint gives Coulson a harassed look. Coulson blinks quickly at a flash of embarrassment. “I didn’t want you to be uncomfortable. I can find some cotton if you prefer.”

“No, fuck me. That’s not the problem,” Clint says, collapsing face-down onto the sofa to bury his face in a pillow. Coulson’s got his dick. Coulson has seen his dick. It is within his reach. Coulson could reach down and hold Clint’s dick. Clint wrestles with that image. Coulson’s hands are good. Well. They’re really _nice_ hands, is all. With access to Clint’s dick. His body has all sorts of opinions about that. Even—especially—the parts of his body that aren’t currently attached to him. Clint’s hair rises in horror.

Coulson clears his throat. Clint’s ears burn.

Awkward.

There’s a moment’s silence. He hears the desk chair creak. Then Coulson says carefully, “Maybe briefs would be a better idea.”

“I haven’t milked the beef in over two weeks,” Clint says, turning his head just enough to free his mouth. “It’s doing this against my will, just in case you’re wondering.”

“I assumed.”

“It’s your hands.”

Coulson blinks at him.

“Your hands are a turn-on,” Clint tells the sofa, sullenly.

“My hands?” It’s the first time Coulson has been surprised.

In the interests of complete honesty, Clint adds, “And your voice.”

Coulson hums interrogatively.

“And your eyes and your smile and your neck and your shoulders and.” Clint waves an aimless hand in the air.

“Everything above the chest, then.” And now Coulson is amused.

“And your ass, what I can tell through the pants.” Clint glances down at himself. “Definitely your dick. If you take your clothes off, I can make an informed decision about the rest,” he adds hopefully.

“Not at this time, thank you.”

“I like your mouth, too.”

Coulson’s mouth obligingly twitches. He has sexy lips. Clint says as much, since he’s still doing all his thinking with the body parts that aren’t actually attached at the moment.

Coulson’s mouth twitches again. “It has been a long time for you, hasn’t it?”

“I need to get laid.”

Another hum. Then Coulson says carefully, “Are you just wanting to relieve the pressure? Or are you looking for something more?”

This seems like a trick question. Clint eyes Coulson suspiciously, even while his heart beats a little faster in hope.

“If it’s purely physical, I can deal with that for you quite easily,” Coulson says.

Oh shit. Clint’s eyes glaze over. Coulson looks down and then shifts in his seat. “Sorry!” Clint yelps, hastily forcing himself to think about Thunderbolt Ross, naked.

“It could have been worse,” Coulson says with resignation. “You could have been thinking about—whatever it is you were thinking about a moment ago—during meetings.”

Clint mumbles something into the sofa and is heartily grateful he doesn’t have a blush reflex. Although a blush reflex is probably a moot point, considering he’s currently giving Coulson an unwanted stiffy. Or rather, his dick in Coulson’s pants is. Giving Coulson a. Hm. Anyway, it’s. Odd. Things are somehow getting weirder in his life, which is something he didn’t think he’d have said given the last couple of weeks.

“If it would help to masturbate you,” Coulson begins.

Clint’s hips jerk against the sofa, entirely involuntary. Coulson breaks off mid-sentence with a sharp intake of sound.

Oops.

“Sorry! Sorry!” Clint says, while a distant part of his brain notes how Coulson’s eyes have darkened. His hips jerk again. “Shit. Wait.” He rolls over to flop onto his back instead. Coulson’s dick has started to get hard. Awfully fast. Clint’s impressed at Coulson’s blood circulation and absolutely is not looking down to admire the tent in his pants. He groans, covering his eyes with his forearm. “And here I thought things couldn’t get more awkward.”

“Well, we can’t have _that_ ,” Coulson says, dry. Clint laughs, scrubbing at his face. “I think we’ve both seen enough of each other that adding some cathartic orgasms won’t make much of a difference. It is your penis, however.”

“Cathartic orgasms,” Clint repeats, longing thrumming through every inch of him. _Oooh_.

Coulson pushes back from his desk, looking determined. “Your hand? Or mine?”

The next two hours are pretty fucking spectacular from Clint’s perspective. It’s weird at first—his dick isn’t _here_ but it _is_ (but it _isn’t_ ). His eyes, brain, and body all feel out of sync with each other, watching Coulson’s hands so far away from him and yet so terribly, wonderfully close. It’s like mainlining vertigo, cut with a blue balls. “Hold on,” Clint says at last, anguished and fretful. “This isn’t working. This isn’t—“ to which Coulson gives him one comprehensive look and orders, “Close your eyes,” and that’s it, Clint’s done.

With vision out of the equation, everything is perfect. Coulson’s hands deserve all the admiration Clint was directing at them before, and then some. The only thing that would’ve made it better is if Coulson would accept a little _quid pro quo_ , but apparently that crosses some sort of professional line in the sand Clint doesn’t have the manual for. Clint’s not too proud to beg. He does a lot of it. Not that it does any good. Thank God Coulson’s office is soundproof. And has a lock. It’s a nice office.

Although as a purely objective criticism, the carpet could be softer. After he falls off the couch, Clint spends a lot of time writhing on it.

“Can we do this again tomorrow?” Clint gasps, when he’s a spent and sweaty rag on the floor. “If you still have my dick, that is.”

Coulson, who’s still neat as a pin except for a little glassiness in his eyes, almost smiles. Clint is warmed by abrupt, possessive pride. “If I still have your equipment,” Coulson agrees.

 

+

 

The next morning, Clint wakes up and still has Coulson’s dick.

He grins straight through the next four days.

It freaks the rest of SHIELD out. Coulson just smiles his little smile and doesn’t say a word.

 

+

 

“Speak to me, Barton,” Coulson says. “What’s going through your head right now?”

Clint blinks at him. He’s still holding the coffee he was bringing Coulson in his office, and a packet of chocolate donuts from the vending machine. On Wednesdays, Coulson prefers the chocolate ones because they won’t leave powdered sugar on his suit right before the Oversight Committee meeting.

Clint’s pretty sure Coulson just said something important. He wasn’t listening. Mostly because he was wondering if he could persuade Coulson to exchange some oral today, and that was super distracting.

“Not much,” Clint admits. And then he amends, “Not much that was relevant to— Say what again?”

“Wakiyama thinks she knows what’s causing it,” Coulson repeats patiently, his ears oddly pink, and then goes on to elaborate, “It took longer than I’d hoped. The DNA took a while to match up because of database upgrades.“ Even vague yet menacing government agencies have bad IT days. “The owner of your last penis, once we found him. He kept moving around—it turns out, surprisingly, that he was a restaurant deliveryman by night and a bike messenger by day.”

That makes Clint pause. “Pepperoni Pizza Dick was actually delivering pepperoni pizzas?”

“Chinese food, mostly.” Coulson actually sounds apologetic about it. “Apparently, his wandering appendages returned to him after visiting you for the day, and haven’t left since. He hasn’t been informed whose equipment he had. The cover story is that there was some stray Chitauri weaponry recovered nearby that we think caused it.” He slides a photograph of a man across his desk. Clint stares blankly at it. Pepperoni Pizza’s face lives up to his dick. “He delivered to the Tower six days ago. He claims to have met you briefly when he did the drop-off. You gave him a big tip and an autograph when he asked.”

“Okay?”

“You don’t remember?”

Clint shrugs. “I eat a lot of Chinese.”

With a small twitch of lips, Coulson brings out a few more photographs for inspection. There are five other people represented, all of them wildly different enough to never be selected for a single lineup.

“This guy,” Clint realizes, pointing. “I’ve met him. He was one of the cops in Des Moines. He got hit. I did first aid on him until the medics got there. He got air-lifted out. His name’s Chen, Chieng— something.”

“You had gloves on?”

“I was wearing these.“ Clint tosses the doughnuts at Coulson, and holds up his left hand. He’s still got his archery glove on since he’s fresh from the range; little finger and thumb bare, the other three covered.

“So you made skin contact.”

“I guess? He was bleeding out, made everything slippery for a while. The bullet got through the armhole of his vest. I wasn’t paying too much attention to whether or not I—” His brain connects some dots. “He was one of the other penises?” He pauses to consider. “Penii? What’s the plural of penis?”

“Penises. Or penes,” says Coulson, who apparently knows everything. He taps a finger on the photo. “One of his nurses found it odd when his penis spontaneously generated tattoos while he was under care. The incident was escalated to the CDC—“ Clint snickers at the thought of a contagion that adds ornate cherry blossom and koi tattoos to people’s dicks, “—which landed on the desk of an old Army friend of mine there. He passed it on to me, thinking it sounded like something likely to interest SHIELD.”

“Spontaneous dick tats interest SHIELD?”

“We have a wide mandate.”

“It was a nice tattoo,” Clint says nostalgically. Not for the first time, he considers one for his own. He’s got a high pain threshold.

Coulson looks at him, then hums. “I think your equipment looks fine the way Nature intended.”

It’s said so offhandedly, it takes a moment for Clint to register the compliment and blink. Coulson’s ears flush a little as he clears his throat. Clint’s heart thumps warmly. He flicks another picture with his fingernail to bridge the moment. “I know this other guy, too. I’ve seen him around.”

“Agent Towser.” Coulson pillows his cheek in his palm and studies it. “He reported his missing penis out of Omaha last Thursday, before we even got the DNA match. Because some people,” he adds without so much as a change of expression, “think it’s worth acting immediately when bits of themselves disappear without explanation.”

That’s probably some kind of point Coulson’s trying to make there. Clint says blankly, “We have a report form for missing genitalia?”

“We do now. He came through on the way to a Treasury assignment. The other agents are stationed all over. You’ve run into them here on their way through.”

Clint considers, then shrugs. It’s not impossible. “So what does Medical think is happening?”

Wakiyama’s theory, it turns out, is that Clint’s dick is the metaphysical equivalent of an STD, transmitted through skin contact with the last man Clint touches during the day. _Just like pubic lice,_ she says. _Except with fewer legs._ She probably thinks she’s being funny.

“Come again?” Clint says.

“You touch, you give penis,” Wakiyama says. “Big party in your pants. Everybody happy! Except penises.”

Behind her, Coulson closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Why do you suddenly sound like a fortune cookie?” Clint demands, suspicious.

Wakiyama’s eyes glitter. “Time to test hypothesis!” She grabs Clint by the arm and drags him off, Coulson a blandly resigned caboose. She’s 4’8” and maybe 80 pounds. Clint could totally take her—except apparently he can’t, because five minutes later, he finds himself in quarantine, dressed in clean scrubs. Wakiyama is fucking terrifying. She peers at him through the quarantine door window, Coulson’s face a half-moon sliver behind her head. “Two day alone! No touching!” she yells through the intercom, before dumping a box of porn mags through the food tray slot.

He stands in the middle of the room and stares at the stack of glossy mags for a few minutes.

“What the actual fuck,” he says at last.

 

+

 

It goes without saying that Clint’s not really good at solitary.

He’s solitary by habit, it’s true, but that’s a personal choice rather than a dictate. Having the _option_ to leave his own private rooms is what keeps him in them; by that same regard, not having the option immediately turns him all kinds of crazed: shades of captivity and control that Loki did nothing to improve.

And quarantine means he doesn’t get Coulson catharsis time.

Objectively speaking, Clint is a smart guy. He knows this because SHIELD regularly tests the shit out of him—but that just means he’s smart enough to know he can be pretty dumb. This is why he tries to keep himself occupied at all times. Left alone with nothing to chew on but itself, his brain tends to go all kinds of self-destructive. He starts going through ops that went bad; wrong choices he’s made; _might have beens_ and _could have hads_. With nothing but porn and dull grey walls to stare at, Clint’s mind starts relentlessly cataloging all the horrible shit he’d done since he joined SHIELD, all the horrible shit he’d done _before_ he joined SHIELD, all the myriad and innumerable reasons why Coulson would never date him—

—Wait. Wait wait wait. Stop. Back up. What?

He stares blankly into space, resets, and warily lets his brain do its thing again. Horrible shit since joining SHIELD.Yes. Horrible shit before joining SHIELD. Alright. Horrible shit equals no can haz snuggle time with Coulson.

Stop. Hold the fucking horses, brain. Snuggle-time with Coulson? What the fuck?

His brain tells him he can’t date Coulson, because of reasons.

“Did I even _want_ to?” he says aloud, baffled.

Of course he didn’t, because he couldn’t have anyway, his brain informs. Because he’s a horrible person, who’s done horrible shit. Horrible, horrible shit. And Coulson is, well. Not horrible.

His heart chimes in at this point, and does a hopeful ka-bump-a-bump.

Shut up, heart, says his brain.

Make me, says his heart.

“Holy shit,” says Clint. “I’m falling for Coulson.” He sits down hard.

Getting a leg over Coulson, that much he knew he wanted. Relationship, though? (His heart waves pom-poms.) Clint forces his mind close to that thought a few times, only to have it scream and shy away at the last minute like a nervous dog meeting a bath. Coulson. Clint and Coulson. Coulson and Clint. Wait a minute.

“I don’t even know his first name,” Clint realizes, dismayed. Wow. He’s a _terrible_ not-boyfriend. “Does he even _have_ a first name? I feel like I should know this.”

Clint makes a personal resolution to ask next time they have sex.

 _Next time_. Ah, shit. He buries his face in his hands. If he gets his dick back, there won’t _be_ a next time. His gut twists at the thought of not being with Coulson anymore. Well, again. ‘Anymore’ implies that there was a previous ‘with Coulson,’ which there wasn’t exactly, except maybe there was? He’s not sure. Does it count if hands are kept strictly below the waist? And only one of you got off? Without having possession of his own dick?

Everything is confusing (no it’s not! shrills his heart) so Clint decides not to think about it anymore. It’s not like he can do anything anyway, in his 10 x 10 room with porn mags and—oh, bag of licorice!—so he’ll just _not_ think about it until it’s worth thinking about. Wakiyama said No touching. Goddammit. Not that Clint had permission to do anything with Coulson’s dick anyway, so that was off the table anyway. And Coulson’d never do anything with Clint’s dick if Clint wasn’t there to consent and supervise.

Looks like two days of celibacy for him. Oh well. No problem. He just came off a sixteen day dry streak, followed by four days of intense orgasms. He’s set. He can do this. He’s not addicted to having sex in his life again or anything. Nope. He’s good.

He idly chews on the end of a Red Vine. Then he takes it out and looks at it. Shit. This is yet another penis joke in the making, isn’t it?

Well, fuck.

 

+

 

Two mornings later, he wakes up with his own dick.

He’s a little surprised how torn he feels about that. Because _his dick_. On the other hand, Coulson.

Damn. He really needs to figure out Coulson’s first name.


End file.
